So farewell to Wimbledon and slobbing around watching and pretending to work, trying to do my accounts and being a pillar of all that is good. Murray won, as the whole world knows, which is great. As for me and work, well, it still feels as if there's a ceiling down somewhere. Though when you look and see it's been repaired, that excuse is all used up.  Yet my turrets and towers (see very early posts if you don't know what I mean) which collapsed under the rubble and now lie in the middle of the floor, are still there, like leaning things in foreign places. Now and then I move the dust around, trying to decide what to keep and what to throw out, such is the opportunity a collapsing house affords. But I'm there with Jaqueline Wilson. Don't want to throw out any books. Never mind. Writing a short story. Oh, I like those. No. Stop it. Accounts. Accounts. Accounts. And I will not be put off by The Ashes. Or the cycling. Or the athletics. Or anything remotely to do with sport. Promise. Bye for now. Must dash.